


Like Fading Pictures (We Were Fading, too)

by saradise48



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-18 season, Cluelessness, Future Fic, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Lack of Communication, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 23:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11263290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saradise48/pseuds/saradise48
Summary: Dylan had already been feeling shitty over the bad loss, more than normal, but being planted in front of a screen showing Connor kick ass just over a week after his comeback amplified it even further. “Dude, ease up,” Mitch said, his eyebrows scrunching together as he glanced over Dylan thoughtfully. Dylan looked down and finally noticed his white knuckles, the death grip he was holding his fork with. He dropped it abruptly and scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to snap out of it. “You know you can trust me, right? What’s up?”Maybe it was because it had really gotten to be too much—Connor ignoring him, moving on, the stilted and awkward conversations he and Connor had when he was home two months ago, like they had fallen out of practice with each other—or maybe it had been the way Mitch looked at him like he legitimately cared. (Dylan knew he still cared even now. He did.) Whatever it was, Dylan cracked and told him everything.





	Like Fading Pictures (We Were Fading, too)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and title pulled from _Twist the Knife_ by Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!
> 
> (there's some smudging of OHL schedules and blatant disregard for released preseason schedules and NHL scheduling matrices but this is my universe. I do what I want.)

Dylan didn’t watch Connor’s game seven, only because he had his own game to worry about that night, too, and by the time he got back to the hotel, he was exhausted. He passed out in bed before he could even turn on the TV.

The next morning, though, he woke up to the sounds of Brinksy moving around the room, TSN on in the background. The first thing Dylan saw on the TV when he flipped onto his back and sat up was the handshake line from last night. The camera zoomed in, followed Connor as he worked his way down the line, his helmet pushed far up on his head and a guarded expression on his face. The headline at the bottom of the screen confirmed Dylan’s assumption: final score after overtime 2-1, the Ducks were moving on. 

“Sucks for Davo, huh?” Alex commented, glancing up from where he was digging through his suitcase.

Dylan hummed in reply, his hand automatically reaching for his phone to text Connor without his permission. He stopped himself after typing _more like anaheim fucks amirite??_ when he remembered they didn’t joke with each other like that anymore; they hadn’t for a while. Especially after a game that had to have been so important for Connor, Dylan didn’t think he would appreciate that kind of comment. 

-

When Dylan walked into the locker room back home in Erie two days later, all in a rush he felt, more than anything, vindication. The shit show that had been Dylan’s career for the past two years hadn’t been for absolutely nothing. Sure, Connor had moved on to supposedly bigger and better things in the NHL, but at least Dylan was _still playing hockey_. Even more than that, he was playing for a chance at the Memorial Cup, something Connor never got his hands on. It was something not touched by Connor, something Dylan had the chance to finally call his own, apart from him. 

-

“Stromer, fucking turn on Sportsnet right now,” was the first thing Mitch said once Dylan picked up the phone. 

“What the hell?” he replied, but he sat up in his hotel bed and looked around for the remote. Brinksy hardly glanced up from his iPad. Mitch didn’t answer, just waited silently for Dylan to change the channel. Dylan finally found the remote, and flipped over to the hockey game Mitch was freaking out about. He didn’t understand what the big deal about the game was—it was Windsor versus the Q—until the camera shot switched to a close up of Connor as he answered a question from the panel. “What the fuck.”

“Did you know he was in Windsor?”

“He didn’t tell me shit. Why would he? Brinksy?” 

“I didn’t hear anything about this. Are you sure you didn’t just miss his text? Everything got pretty crazy there after we won against ‘Sauga.” 

“What the fuck,” Dylan repeated, ignoring Brinksy’s question. “I haven’t seen the guy in _months_ and he can’t even send a fucking text telling me we’re in the same city for the first time in I don’t even know how long?”

Dylan knew things had gotten pretty strained between him and Connor, but seriously? Working with the schedules of two hockey players on opposite sides of the continent during the season was one thing, but Connor and his Oilers got eliminated two weeks ago. That wasn’t an excuse anymore. 

“Text him, Stromer. Is he gonna be there for your game tomorrow?”

“Fuck him,” Dylan interrupted, shutting off the TV. He rolled out of bed and headed for the door to the room. Once he was outside, he slid to the ground against the wall opposite the door, burying his face in his free hand. “I’m done. Things haven’t been okay for a long time but I’ve kept fucking avoiding it, Marns. He got to put Erie and me behind him, and this is what I’m left with? Some hotshot NHL captain who thinks he’s too good for me now?” Dylan laughed, but it was empty.

“I’m sorry, Stromer.”

“Yeah, I am, too.”

-

(As it turned out, if the Memorial Cup was too good for Connor in juniors, Dylan should have known it was too good for him, too. Even if he thought it was their year after a season full of disappointment. Even if he thought this was his moment to shine while Connor licked his wounds back— _wherever_ he could have been at this point, Dylan had no idea anymore. Looked like second place was the theme for the year.) 

-

Mitch and Clayton were the only ones who really knew how fed up with everything Connor related Dylan had become over the past two seasons. Mitch had been caught in it for the longest, stuck between two of his best friends from the O. Dylan would feel bad about dragging him back into the middle over and over again if Mitch hadn’t been the one to weasel the situation out of him one night after the Otters/Knights game in February of last season, then never let it go. 

Their curfew had been set to eleven that night since both teams had an early day of travel the next morning, but both sets of guys had been given most of the day to do what they wanted, so of course Mitch was barging into Dylan’s bedroom in his billet’s house in the middle of his late afternoon nap, chipper as ever. Dylan groaned when Mitch landed head-first into his back, and buried his head farther into his pillow. 

“Fuck off, Marns.”

“Nope, get up, we’re going to get food and you’re gonna tell me why your default resting bitch face has been worse than normal the past two times I’ve seen you.”

Dylan mustered up the effort to pick his head up and glare in Mitch’s general direction behind him, then flopped down again. “It has not.”

“It has, Stromer, now come on I’m starving,” Mitch continued, finally getting off the bed. 

He waited patiently as Dylan woke up fully, then got dressed, before Mitch finally got bored and practically dragged him out the door. They ended up at their normal spot near the arena, and Mitch asked for a table near one of the screens showing the pregame for the Leafs. Dylan forced a smile and nod when Mitch turned to ask if that was okay. 

Dylan had already been feeling shitty over the bad loss, more than normal, but being planted in front of a screen showing Connor kick ass just over a week after his comeback amplified it even further. “Dude, ease up,” Mitch said, his eyebrows scrunching together as he glanced over Dylan thoughtfully. Dylan looked down and finally noticed his white knuckles, the death grip he was holding his fork with. He dropped it abruptly and scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to snap out of it. “You know you can trust me, right? What’s up?”

Maybe it was because it had really gotten to be too much—Connor ignoring him, moving on, the stilted and awkward conversations he and Connor had when he was home two months ago, like they had fallen out of practice with each other—or maybe it had been the way Mitch looked at him like he legitimately cared. (Dylan knew he still cared even now. He did.) Whatever it was, Dylan cracked and told him everything.

If he was being honest, looking back, Dylan wished he had told Mitch everything that was going wrong a lot sooner than he had. He was miserable since the beginning of the season without Connor at his side in Erie, but he had thought it was something for him to deal with alone, another part of growing up as a hockey player destined for the NHL that he had to learn to live with. As much as it bothered him that he couldn’t fix it all by himself, it helped to know Mitch was there to take his side and try to make the hurt go away when Dylan needed it most. 

-

Dylan didn’t mean to practically flee down to Glendale the second he could get away from Toronto. Dylan didn’t mean to bring up his Connor Thing to Kells when he did, either. He didn’t mean to ever bring it up, really, happy to leave it as a thing for him to vent to Mitch about occasionally when he was in a self-deprecating mood. It just kind of happened one night in the beginning of their offseason. Dylan vaguely remembered going out to a bar after their third round of golf for the week, but not much after thanks to the drinks his fake ID got him that night. 

He woke up the next morning with an absolutely massive headache on Kells’ couch. After Dylan’s third cup of coffee, he put a plate full of scrambled eggs down in front of him. Clayton at least had the decency to look embarrassed when he brought up the night before, and the drunken rant Dylan apparently went on during the cab ride back to Clayton’s condo about how pissed he was at Connor, yes, but also at the world in general. 

Thankfully, Clayton kept it quiet which Dylan appreciated out of the guy who had quickly become his closest friend in Arizona. 

Dylan didn’t turn to Kells as much as he turned to Mitch when things bothered him, but if he ever needed a night off down in Arizona, Clayton was there with NHL17 and shitty Chinese takeout way outside of their diet plan, no questions asked. 

So now it was a three person secret. Dylan assumed a few of the other guys on the Otters had at least an idea of what was happening between him and Connor, too, since Brinksy had been present, at least on the periphery, for a lot of it. As great as the guys had been about it all, three was already way too many people. But there was really nothing Dylan could do about it at this point except ignore it all as best he could. 

-

The majority of the offseason passed by with radio silence on the part of Connor, which was nothing new to him. Mitch told Dylan more than once to be the bigger man and be the first to reach out—“Connor’s an oblivious fuck when it comes to anything but hockey and you know it. Don’t be equally as much of a dick”—but like hell was Dylan going to put himself out there like that when Connor could have just as easily typed out a hey. 

Instead, Dylan filled as much time as he could everyday in the gym, distracting himself each morning after with the way his body protested every movement he made. He headed home for July to work with Ryan and Matt, but most of June was spent down with Clayton at prospect camp and with his trainer in Glendale. 

He picked up his phone more than once in that time, thumbing to his text thread with Connor that had been quiet since Christmas. A couple times, he texted out some generic conversation starter, _you heading up to tor any time soon?_ or _heard about clouders tourney next week?_ but it all seemed forced so Dylan deleted it every time before he did something stupid. It had been months, and if Connor really did want to talk by now, he would have reached out. 

Inadvertently, Dylan ended up bailing on Clouder’s tournament, texting Mikey some half baked lie about not feeling well and not wanting to make it worse by being out in the sun all day and accidentally getting dehydrated. Ryan and Matty both ribbed him nonstop until his mom shut the door behind them when they left the morning of the tournament, but when Dylan went through the snapchat stories of all the guys and could point out Connor somewhere in the background every time, he knew he made the right decision.

He wasn’t surprised when Connor didn’t even bother to make an appearance after Ryan and Matt got home late that night, and Dylan’s decision was reaffirmed again. 

-

By the time BioSteel rolled around, Dylan was done pretending things were okay this offseason, so at the last second, he cancelled on camp. It was all he seemed to be doing anymore with everything else that threatened to put him face to face with Connor, so why stop here?

He made up some excuse about heading down to Arizona early to meet up with some of the guys and train with them instead and it sounded like a garbage lie even to him. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief when he all he got was some mindless chirping from the guys when they heard the news. 

(Lawson sent him a photo of the whiteboard with team selections the day before camp. _Strome_ sat as the first pick of the draft, his name tucked neatly under “Team McDavid” in Connor’s slanted handwriting like it belonged there. There was a line drawn right through, _Hall_ crammed into the space next to it.)

It bothered him that he was letting Connor control his life like this, but if he had to deal with the same fawning over him and Connor that happened last year at camp, from the fans _and_ the guys, he might have screamed. They weren’t okay, but no one else seemed to notice or even really care. Not even Connor, it looked like; even if Dylan was his first pick, he hadn’t so much as texted to ask why he cancelled. He had probably just gotten coerced into picking Dylan first, into reuniting McStrome once again. Putting it down to being just another great publicity stunt for BioSteel that he had to go along with—well, _did have_ to—Dylan moved on. 

-

Dylan actually did head down to see the guys already in Arizona, though. He was too close at home in Mississauga and if he got caught on his lie, someone else might have figured out what had been happening—Dylan systematically trying to distance himself from Connor. Two other people knowing already was way too much for Dylan, he wasn’t going to deal with this right now if he didn’t have to. 

Evidently, not dealing with it entailed wallowing on Kells’ couch— _their couch_ , now that Dylan had officially moved into the condo—while he fucked around with NHL18 rather than actually train.

“I should probably get up and actually do something productive at some point this week, shouldn’t I?” Dylan said offhandedly late one afternoon between the shift from dinner to a new round of NHL. 

“I was mostly waiting for you,” was Kells’ reply. “You didn’t come down here looking the best, I figured you had pushed yourself pretty hard all through July, you could use a break before you burned out.” A wave of gratitude rolled through Dylan and Clayton smiled at him like he understood. “Gym tomorrow? We have three weeks till testing starts.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

-

Peripherally, Dylan acknowledged it when Arizona released their preseason schedule and he saw that the Coyotes would be going up to Edmonton for the last preseason game. He just ignored it in favor of focusing on literally anything else he could, still hoping in the back of his mind he would get that game off. 

Over the summer it had been difficult, when he would be pressed for things to do after a hard session at the gym. Through the first rush of testing, meetings and practice, the preseason came at him all at once. He played three times in the first week of the preseason, against the Ducks and Sharks. His half of the squad went 2-0 for the first games, and Dylan finished them with two goals and an assist on one of Kells’ goals. It wasn’t like they counted for anything—in Dylan’s mind he still hadn’t scored his first NHL goal yet—but Dylan hoped they still sent a message to management. 

Management even put him and Clayton up in a hotel room together for their first game against the Ducks and that night was one of the most fun Dylan had had in a while. It was exactly like they were at home, only with more room service and pay per view movies, both of them high off the win and up until two in the morning. 

By the last game, most of the guys Dylan and Clayton’s age besides Law and Jakob had been sent back down to juniors or the farm team, so the group that headed to Tucson was close to what it would be for the season opener. Dylan tried not to think too much into making it this far, remembering how it was the same way last season, only for him to get sent down by the beginning of November. 

The bus ride down to Tucson reminded him of the trips across the border from Erie, but it was too short a ride and too hot even with the AC for the comparison in Dylan’s head to go any further. 

Everyone headed straight into the arena from the bus and Dylan was thankful they didn’t have to wear suits as he slid his sunglasses on and ducked into the nearest shade with Clayton. _It’s fucking September_ , Dylan thought to himself as he got blasted with the arena’s AC, _110° is not hockey weather._ “You get used to it, rooks,” Schenn commented as he walked past them. “Swear!”

“I don’t believe him for a fucking second,” Dylan snorted, looking at Clayton. He grinned, pushing open the door to the locker room. “Oh, and I get the window seat on the way back!”

-

The feeling from the fans in Tucson was more than what Dylan expected for a preseason game, but Dylan knew immediately he didn’t want to play here, be here ever again if it wasn’t with the coyote on his chest. 

-

Sitting up in the box for the last game in Edmonton with a few of the other guys while Connor tore his way up and down the ice felt all too familiar for Dylan.

Going through his pregame routine, he was reminded of the first parts of last season, of going out for warmups only to be called back by coach and then told to change and head upstairs instead. Dylan had to take a second to remember he was here for good this time, he had to be. He’d been sent up here to save him for the opener. They wanted him here now. This year was going to be different. 

“Connor McDavid came up to me in the hall just now and asked where you were,” Clayton remarked after the game, dropping into the aisle seat on the bus next to Dylan. 

“And?” Dylan snapped, glaring out the window. He didn’t mean to direct his frustration at Kells, he just really was not in the mood to figure out what Connor was trying to pull here. 

“I told him coach was resting you so you were up in the box during the game but I wasn’t sure where you would be after. And then I left.”

“Oh.”

“He looked worried at first, almost frantic, before I told him you were upstairs,” Clayton continued on, not hearing Dylan. He finally looked over at Dylan, away from where he had been staring absently at the seat in front of him. “I don’t know, for a guy who has been a total dick to you this entire time, he seemed pretty genuine.”

-

Dylan would’ve been thankful for the way the schedule worked in his favor, allowing him to avoid Connor and Edmonton until the beginning of December, except for the fact that it ended up not being in his favor at all. Dylan had two months until his and Connor’s first game against each other in their NHL colors, on Dylan’s home ice. But after, those two months better have been enough because before the new year, they played each other two more times. 

-

Dylan gave himself a night of celebration after the home opener win against the Panthers, after his first NHL goal scored midway through the second period. Even with all the comments about his play from the guys, Dylan didn’t think he played the best he could have that night. He made a couple of bad plays, one of which ended up costing them a goal. But he put that in the back of his mind for the night, and decided to focus on it in the morning. 

It surprised Dylan more than anyone when he went on a tear in the next eight games, finishing with four goals and five assists, enough that when he got asked about it, other than the generic PR team generated responses, he had no idea what else to say. 

He didn’t even realize he was playing his tenth game until he was suiting up for the morning skate and all of a sudden, he had a shaving cream pie shoved in his face by Lawson. Even through the burning eyes, Dylan laughed all the way down the tunnel twenty minutes later, Clayton bumping his stick against the backs of his thighs with every step. He had finally found his stride. 

-

The first game of December came way too soon for Dylan’s liking. Duke disappeared from the locker room for an hour after their skate, so Dylan assumed that meant it was the Oilers’ turn on the ice and it was time for him to get out of there. 

“You ready?” Dylan asked, walking across the room to Clayton’s stall. He gave Dylan a disapproving frown, but shrugged and followed him to the players’ lot. 

-

That night was the first where Dylan put in all the effort he could but for whatever reason, nothing clicked the way he wanted. He was frustrated, and the guys kept telling him it was no big deal—there was already more Calder talk surrounding him than even fucking Nolan Patrick, in _December_ —but it was definitely a big deal. 

The last thing Dylan wanted was to look like he was struggling while Connor’s strides up and down the ice looked as effortless as ever. It had thrown him off his game. Connor still had the ability to get under his skin like he always had.

Post-game press was full of way too many questions about how it felt to play against _the_ Connor McDavid for the first time in the NHL and how Dylan thought he handled it, what he thought about the win against the team that was first in the Pacific. He managed a non answer the PR team would have been proud of the first two times, but by the end of his media time, Dylan was nothing but numb. All he wanted was to go home.

-

Clayton trailed behind, let Dylan basically sprint from the locker room to the car in the parking lot, not saying a word about going to see Connor or sending a text to duck out last second instead. Dylan wasn’t so lucky with Mitch. When Dylan turned on his phone as he changed out of his game day suit in his room, he was interrupted with the incessant vibrating that meant he had a slew of texts coming in. 

Flopping down onto his bed, Dylan wasn’t surprised to see that all but one text was from Mitch. He skimmed through the running commentary from the game and rolled his eyes once he got to Mitch’s all caps rants about the one face off they had been matched up for. It had passed by with only a cautious smile from Connor which Dylan had ignored in favor of staring at the puck in the ref’s hand, but Mitch still found it necessary to start screaming about it. 

Dylan was a little ashamed when the GIF finally loaded in the most recent text from Mitch. It showed a moment on the ice after the buzzer for the first intermission sounded, signaling the end of the same shift where they had faced off. 

Dylan remembered Connor finding him on the ice, and streaking down toward him with long strides. He had reached out, grasping for the sleeve of his jersey just as Dylan made it back to his own bench. Connor looked so _hopeful_ , and tonight was the first time Dylan had even let himself look at his former best friend in over a year, and Dylan almost let it happen. But then habit faded as he remembered the past two seasons, Connor leaving him behind, and his own new resolve to leave Connor behind, too. So, at the last second, he shrugged away from the touch and stopped himself from bolting down the tunnel to escape back to the locker room. The GIF showed the moment after Dylan disappeared and he hated the way his heart clenched at the sight of Connor’s pained expression. The GIF looped, and Dylan had to tap away. 

He didn’t bother replying to any of the texts in particular, especially not that one. Instead, Dylan typed _whatever, I’m just glad this is all over with_. He left Mitch on read after he got an answer: _it’ll never be completely over with._

The one text that wasn’t from Mitch was from Connor. Dylan deleted the thread before he could read anything past the preview. 

-

Unfortunately, Clayton didn’t let him off as easy the next time they played the Oilers a week later. The team flew into Edmonton late the night before the game and they both barely made it into the hotel room before they both crashed on the closest bed. 

The morning skate passed by without incident, but Dylan spent most of it with half of his attention on the Oilers’ bench, almost waiting for Connor to appear. The disapproving frown got progressively worse throughout the next day as they prepped for the game, until Clayton’s face was set in a permanent scowl directed at Dylan by puck drop. 

The same cautious smile from last week got thrown in Dylan’s direction, too. Dylan just ignored it all and tried to play his game. That turned out to work, and Dylan finished the night with the game winning goal a less than a minute into overtime. 

By the time Dylan was done with the extra media that had flocked to him because of his goal, he had another text from Connor waiting for him, asking to meet the next day. The team had an off day in Edmonton before they bussed down to Calgary for their game, and Dylan assumed the Oilers had a similar schedule. Dylan glanced up from his phone, still half dressed in his gear, and almost immediately locked eyes with Clayton across the room. He raised an eyebrow and nodded, like he could read Dylan’s mind before he managed to even go over and ask; before Dylan could think about it, he fired off _got nothing better to do, when and where?_

-

Connor had told him to meet him in front of the arena at one, but Dylan was pacing in front of the arena, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes half an hour early. He debated calling it off, making a break for it back to the hotel before Connor could show up, but Dylan didn’t think he could deal with Clayton directing another glare in his direction again, and another moment later, Connor was pulling up in his range rover. 

Dylan knew it was his car even before he had rolled down the tinted passenger side window to call him over when he saw the Ontario license plate that stuck out among all the other Alberta ones. He ignored the clench in his chest, thinking of his truck back in Arizona with the same plates and got into the car. 

Calling the half hour ride to some spot outside the city awkward would be polite. Connor was quiet in the same way he used to be after a bad loss in Erie. All Dylan got beyond a quiet hey which he hesitantly returned, was another one of Connor’s small smiles which showed just how uncomfortable he was as he turned his attention back to the road. Dylan realized what it was on the ride—Connor’s media smile—something Dylan had never had turned on him since their first meeting when they were both sixteen and in new territory with each other. And as much as he had come to resent Connor in the past two years, he found that he hated that smile more. 

They pulled up in front of an ice rink situated on a gravel driveway and hidden away from the main road by a line of trees. Dylan wasn’t surprised at all, even now. He could picture Connor coming here to clear his head, get away from the city for a while. He definitely wasn’t a city person at all, and this place seemed much more to fit what Connor needed sometimes. The two of them had ended up in similarly anonymous-looking rinks in Erie and across Ontario in the past. 

Connor sat in the parking spot, the car idling as he stared straight ahead at the building in front of him. Dylan sat uneasily, fiddling with his keys until Connor snapped out of it and led Dylan across the parking lot and into the building.

There was a small lobby, but as soon as they walked in, they were in front of the ice. Other than a couple of middle schoolers in one corner, the rink was dead since it was the middle of a weekday. Hanging above the counter for skate rentals sat a framed and signed McDavid jersey. Connor cringed when he noticed Dylan looking. A couple of the staff members waved when they saw Connor, but otherwise they were left alone as they climbed the stairs to the top row of bleachers. 

“You wanted to talk?” Dylan finally spoke up when it was clear that Connor wasn’t going to.

He noticed a blush dust Connor’s cheeks as he turned to look at Dylan. He smiled but it looked forced, sad almost. “I did. But it’s been two fucking years since we’ve been okay and I have no idea what to say to you anymore.”

“How about a fucking apology, then? For the shitty way you decided to cut me off. Like, I get it if you wanted to move on, who would wanna still be attached to some second-rate OHLer-”

“Wait, Dylan, what? I cut you off? I thought you were mad at me! Leon said-”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what Leon said!” Dylan shot back, his voice echoing through the rink. “Don’t even try to act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about,” Dylan challenged, trying to keep his voice down, even if they were mostly alone. 

“No, hang on that isn’t fair, let me explain,” Connor objected. Dylan crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. He wanted to hear this. “I wanted to do this at the preseason game, not here. Listen, I missed you-”

“Fuck off, Connor, you may be the most technologically inept person I know, but you have how many ways to reach out to me? I wasn’t asking for an elaborate instagram post expressing your sincerest apologies for hurting my feelings. I just wanted my best friend back. Why didn’t you wanna talk any of the other times the past two years when you could have easily picked up the phone and called? Hell, Connor, you could have texted me and I still would’ve gotten the message that something was wrong even with your shitty shorthand like you’re a twelve year old girl.”

Connor grinned for a second, but he sobered up quickly. “Look, Dyls it was an accident at first. Not calling you? It was the last thing I wanted to do. I did it to a lot of guys without realizing it until it was too late for me to turn around and act like we were okay. But I was in a new city, with a new team-” 

Dylan scoffed, mumbled, “Oh yeah, Connor McJesus, big shot NHLer, rub it in some more.”

“-and I didn’t know how to bring it up to you. I got distracted with coping and growing up and figuring all this shit out on my own. I was eighteen, I was bound to fuck up something, turns out it was our friendship.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you say something when you came home?”

“You looked like you wanted nothing to do with me! Was I wrong?” Dylan sighed but shook his head. “I told myself this was you moving on for both of us, that this was how it had to be. Plenty of guys from juniors end up with different teams when they get to the show, so they move on and grow up. I thought we’d be the lucky ones to avoid that, keep it together, at least up until I got home that winter. You looked like you wanted to be absolutely anywhere else whenever we were together, and what was I supposed to do with that?”

“I hate this.”

“Dylan-”

“No, I’m a fucking idiot because I thought the exact same thing your rookie season. Mitch kept telling me to get back in touch with you and all I could think about was my pride, and how you should’ve been the one to reach out when here you were thinking the same bullshit about me.”

“We’re both stupid, this isn’t just the fault of one of us. He kept telling me the same thing, too, and I could have easily found a way to talk to you if I really wanted before that preseason game. I guess seeing then you doing so well without me made me realize that I wasn’t the same without you. At all.”

Dylan slouched against the wall, uncrossing his arms. He stopped himself from saying what he really wanted to: _I was anything but okay for the longest time without you, what are you talking about? I hated the way I had become dependent on making it look like I didn’t need you when that was all I wanted for the longest time. You were the one who never needed me, while I was happy to make my home in your shadow. I’m still happy to do that if you’d let me, honestly._

When he looked over at Connor, he was smiling—unguarded, the one that had made Dylan feel at home years ago when he was still a teenager far from it in Erie. Dylan couldn’t help his grin in return even with his mind racing, “What?”

Connor shook his head, looking out onto the ice, “I just missed you is all.”

“Me, too, Davo.” Connor beamed and Dylan tried not to think about why it made him proud to be the reason for it. “Now come on, I didn’t have lunch and I’m fucking starving.”

-

Dylan was still smiling to himself when he got back to the hotel room a half an hour before their ten o’clock curfew. 

Clayton whistled, low, from his spot on his bed by the window, not looking up from his phone. Dylan felt himself blush for no reason in particular, “I guess it went well, then?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said, content, as he started shucking off his layers of sweatshirts and jackets. He hadn’t packed well enough for an Alberta winter. “Yeah, it did. We’re not perfect by any means. But we’re gonna get back there. I know it.”

“Don’t even try to leave me with just that, Stromer! God, you paid way too much attention in PR training during rookie camp,” Clayton muttered, tossing his phone to the end of the bed. “I’ve been following this saga with you and Hockey McJesus for _months._ Tell me everything, asshole.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, laughing, but settled on his bed and started at the beginning of their day. 

-

Dylan called Mitch the next morning as they started loading up the bus. He picked up on the last ring, but the voice that answered wasn’t his, “‘lo?” Whoever it was sounded like they had been woken up by the phone ringing. 

Before he could reply, Dylan heard Mitch cackling like normal in the background, “That’s my phone, dumbass. Hand it over!”

“Stromer!” Mitch called through the phone, all too happy. Dylan checked the time; they were up at six in Edmonton for the ride which meant it was only eight Mitch’s time. He still wasn’t surprised; it was hard to keep up with Mitch sometimes, but in other times like this, his constant energy just made Dylan smile and miss his one of his best friends. 

“Who was that?” Mitch faltered, taking a beat too long to answer. “Mitch?”

“Um, it was possibly Matts?”

“Oh, what, did he crash on your couch last night or something?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s exactly what he did. Crashed on the couch,” Mitch trailed off. He picked right back up before Dylan could continue that line of questioning. “What happened? You played Edmonton the other night, and I didn’t get any updates. I’m hurt, Stromer. Unless something went really wrong, which-”

“No, actually we talked?” Mitch hummed calmly in reply, but Dylan could almost see him freaking out to himself back in Toronto. “We figured it out. Basically we’re both stupid, you were right. But we talked and I think I’ve got my friend back.”

“Oh. So you’re good? Tell me what he said.”

-

Mitch made Dylan retell the whole story two more times when the Leafs came down three days later. He was absolutely ecstatic in the way he normally was when he was even just generally happy, and Auston had to hold him down by the shoulders when he started jumping up and down in the middle of the sidewalk as they walked to lunch. 

“It’s really not a big deal Mitch, we’re not gonna have time to see each other after this month is over. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I get to talk to him much more before we play in March.”

“I don’t care,” Mitch said, still grinning madly, as he leaned back against Auston’s arm where it was draped across his seat. “I’m just happy two of my best friends are okay.”

-

Christmas passed by in a flurry of too much travel and not enough time home. He spent the morning with his parents and brothers, exchanging gifts and flipping between channels showing _Die Hard_ and _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ as they all lounged in the living room. That night, Dylan made the half hour drive to Mitch’s condo in the city. By the time he got there, most of the other Leafs guys Mitch had invited had shown up, too, so Dylan let himself into the condo. 

Almost immediately, Mitch found him in the kitchen looking for a bottle of water. Right as Dylan could get one, though, he was being dragged by the shirt collar into the living room as Mitch babbled on with some story about Auston he didn’t bother paying attention to. Just as he finished, he practically shoved Dylan down into an empty seat on the L-shaped couch. Turning to his left, he saw Connor, grinning up at him unabashedly from where he was slouched down into the couch cushions. 

“Merry Christmas, Dyls,” Connor said, holding up his water bottle. Dylan knocked it against his own and settled down into the couch to watch _Home Alone._

“Merry Christmas.”

-

The media’s questions got no less difficult to deal with the third time the Oilers and Coyotes played against each other on New Year’s Eve in Glendale. Dylan did well enough in the game, managing an assist on Jakob’s goal, their only goal for the night; but he imagined it had to have been a lot worse for Connor after the night he had. He wouldn’t blame the reporters for flocking to Connor instead, after his four point night, two of them being goals. 

As decent as the Coyotes had been this year—somehow still managing to maintain the second wild card spot—writing about an average hockey team in a desert had to get pretty dull pretty fast, Dylan thought. 

The one upside to dealing with press, now, though was that he got to go home and complain about it to Connor tonight. Both their coaches had held off on the curfew for the night since it was New Year’s and they had the next few days with no games anyway. Connor would be leaving after the Winter Classic tomorrow, so they had almost the whole day.

Instead of heading out to a bar with the rest of the guys from both teams like Clayton that night after the game, they both decided to head back to the condo instead to watch show Vegas put on on the strip that night at midnight. Connor looked around appraisingly at the living room once the door was opened, and for a moment, Dylan wished he had the foresight to clean up at least a little, but he didn’t dwell on it when Connor turned to him and only smiled, then picked a spot on the couch. 

With daylight savings, midnight had already come for the East Coast, while in Arizona, on Pacific time, it was barely past eleven, so they still had almost an hour to kill before they rang in 2018. Dylan wordlessly went up to the TV and turned on their Xbox, blindly tossing a controller behind him in the direction of Connor. “What the hell!” Connor laughed, so Dylan knew he caught it. 

“Gotta keep your reflexes sharp somehow,” Dylan replied, dropping back onto the couch in the space next to Connor as the loading screen for NHL18 appeared on the screen. 

Clayton came through the front door, just as the final seconds ticked down on their second game of the night. “Yes!” Connor beamed, the final screen showing the score of 3-2 in favor of his Oilers after Dylan had beaten him 4-1 in the last game. 

“Best of three, asshole,” Dylan laughed, shoving at him. He turned to Clayton as a loading screen appeared, “What’s up? You’re back early.”

Clayton scoffed, disappearing into the kitchen. He spoke up once he took up a spot on the recliner, “It’s one o’clock.”

Dylan saw Connor’s eyes widen in confusion, and he checked his own phone. “Shit,” he laughed. “I guess we got distracted. So much for Vegas, huh, Davo?” Connor shrugged, not meeting Dylan’s eyes. 

“Whatever, losers, I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up until hockey,” Clayton called as he wandered down the hall to his room. The door to his room shut behind him a moment later, and Connor still wasn’t looking at Dylan. 

“I’m pretty beat, too, actually. Do you mind if we do a rain check on this?” Connor finally said, pointing at the TV. Dylan nodded, and hurried to turn of the console and TV.

“Come on, I’ll get you a change of clothes and then we can crash.” 

Connor trailed behind him to his room, then hovered by the dresser as Dylan dug through it, looking for one shirt in particular. It’d probably have been a bit too snug on Connor since he had filled in to himself considerably, but Dylan felt like he had a point to make with this shirt. Finally, he found it buried in the back corner of his drawer. He tossed the navy shirt at Connor, then turned right back to the dresser to get another shirt and some sweats. 

“Dyls,” Connor tried. Dylan ignored him in favor of heading into the bathroom across the hall to grab a spare toothbrush. Connor followed him. “Dylan, you kept this all that time?” he asked, holding out the shirt.

Dylan finally turned toward him to look at the shirt. It was wrinkled from being shoved in the drawer for so long, and the screen printing was cracked and considerably faded, but the Otters logo on the front, and _McDavid_ perched on top of the gold 97 were still just as clear as anything. 

Dylan shrugged. “I haven’t worn it since last Christmas, but I wanted it down here with me, you know?”

Connor nodded, glancing over the shirt with an almost mystified look on his face. Dylan didn’t let himself focus on it for too long, just left Connor with his sweatpants in the bathroom to change. He reappeared in the doorway to Dylan’s room, changed. Dylan forced himself to look away; the shirt still fit Connor well, he filled in to the spots that were oversized only a year ago. He looked good, Dylan thought. No matter how well he did in orange and blue, in Dylan’s mind, they both belonged in navy, red and yellow. Together. 

Dylan snapped out of his thoughts when Connor jerked his thumb back in the direction of the living room. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“No? What, Connor come on I have a queen sized bed, get over here, you’re not that much of a fat ass,” Dylan said, shifting over to the far side of the bed. Connor gave him a skeptical look, but there was a grin playing at the corners of his mouth so Dylan counted it as a win. 

They settled on their sides of the bed, both of them on their backs, staring at the ceiling. Dylan looked over, finally getting up the nerve to say something after a few minutes of quiet, and saw Connor had fallen asleep. He sighed, then turned onto his side and did the same.

-

Dylan woke up the next morning facing Connor as he snored quietly. Looking at his phone, he saw it was close to nine; they still had a few hours before the game, then. 

When he rolled back onto his side to try and maybe get another hour or two of sleep, he saw that Connor was blinking awake. “Hey,” he whispered, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye with a yawn.

Dylan smiled back. “Morning.”

They stayed quiet for a couple minutes, glancing between each other and random spots across the room. Connor sighed after they made eye contact for the third time and spoke up, “So, you know how people kiss their partner on New Year’s Eve for, like, good luck, or whatever, right? And it’s supposed to set the tone for the rest of the year?”

“Sure?” Dylan mumbled, still half asleep. He needed a cup of coffee before they had this kind of conversation so he could actually follow what Connor was trying to tell him. It felt important and Dylan owed it to him to pay attention.

“Well, anyway, it’s like, you kiss the person you care most about on New Year’s Eve, and it’s this whole thing about bonds you wanna maintain and strengthen in the future...I was wondering. Do you think it would still count if someone did it on New Year’s Day instead?”

“Davo, what are you getting at here?”

Instead of a response, Connor propped himself up on his elbow, never looking away from Dylan who was now below him. “Let me try something?” Connor asked, not even waiting for an answer before he was leaning down and pressing his lips to Dylan’s. As Connor’s free hand reached up to cup Dylan’s jaw, he felt his hand go up, too, to touch Connor’s neck, and Dylan let himself fall into the kiss for a minute. Something about it just felt _right,_ like this was supposed to have been what they were to each other. But he let his mind wander as his mouth opened, Connor deepened the kiss; he thought about the past few weeks with Connor, the months without him before that, and how they still weren’t 100% even if Dylan was really trying to get back there. 

Dylan pulled away abruptly after what felt like an hour, and Connor hovered above him, looking worried. “Davo, we shouldn’t,” he said, even though it was the last thing he wanted.

“Why?” Connor questioned, running his thumb lightly over Dylan’s bottom lip, his eyes tracing the movement. “Dylan, you can’t tell me you don’t want this, too.”

“I-” _do_ , he wanted to say. But that wasn’t fair to either of them. Dylan had just started getting over it all and becoming comfortable with who he was without Connor when he had come back into his life, and he didn’t need new feelings to complicate it all even more. And Connor, well, he had a legitimate NHL career to worry about, a reputation as one of the faces of a league where being gay wasn’t something that happened—at least in the public eye. Connor deserved to be known for his hockey, not for being the first active professional hockey player to come out, especially just as his career was really starting. So Dylan bit the bullet, “I don’t.”

Connor’s face fell, and he jerked his hand away like Dylan had burned him. “Oh.”

“Davo-” Dylan tried as Connor got out of bed and started changing back into the button down and dress pants he had come to the condo in last night. 

“No, I should go. Coach and all the guys are probably wondering where I am,” Connor said as he folded up his borrowed clothes and put them on top of Dylan’s dresser. “I’ll see you later,” he called noncommittally before sprinting out of the room. 

Dylan flopped back onto the bed, his arms hanging off either end of the bed, and groaned as he heard the front door slam shut. A couple minutes later, Clayton’s door opened. “I thought I said to let me sleep till hockey,” he groaned, and he appeared in Dylan’s doorway. “What happened? Where’s McDavid?”

“He left. He, uh, he kissed me?”

Clayton came over and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning against the headboard so he could look at Dylan. “Yeah?” Dylan nodded. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Dylan laughed, and it sounded depressing, even to him, “He’s fucking Connor McDavid, that’s what’s wrong about it. And I wanted to be selfish. God, I should’ve fucking explained myself better, or _something._ But it just wasn’t fair to either of us. I couldn’t let it happen if I wasn’t ready for it, no matter how much I wanted it. All of it.” Clayton stayed quiet for a minute and Dylan huffed. “I need to call Mitch.”

Clayton sighed, pat Dylan’s knee and stood up. “Come on.”

Dylan sniffed, wiping roughly at his eyes. “What?”

“Right now, what you need is breakfast, the biggest mug of coffee we have and _The Office_ reruns.”

-

Looking back, it was scarily normal how easy Dylan fell back into the routine of having Connor back on his side in the past few weeks. But it was even less of a change to not have him there once again in the next few months.

He went on a scoring slump through most of February, barely averaging half a point a night, and all the attention that had been on him in December suddenly moved on to the next great thing. Dylan stopped paying attention to Oilers scores, only kept his gamecenter subscription so he could still follow Mitch and the Leafs. His McDavid shirt retook its spot shoved in the back of the shirt drawer. 

Clayton said he got noticeably quieter, more distant until his birthday in March. Ryan had a game the day after, but Matt managed to work it into his schedule to come down with their parents to Arizona for a few days and to catch the game the night before his birthday. Dylan would never admit it out loud to anyone but Mitch, but Dylan missed his family more than anything some days that winter. It was different in Erie, where now, the plane ride to Toronto to see them took longer than the drive home a year ago would have. 

His mom’s smile dropped almost immediately when she saw him. He knew he looked exhausted, and he had definitely lost more than what he called “just a few pounds” to Clayton when he asked. And he felt all of it. When she hugged him hard as they reached each other in front of the baggage claim carousel, he fell into it. 

The ruthless chirping from Matty as Dylan drove them to their hotel boosted his mood considerably and he felt lighter when his dad stopped him before he walked into the lobby and told him he was doing great, that they were so proud of him and what he had accomplished so far. 

-

The Coyotes flew up to Edmonton for the final game of the season series at the end of March, a week before the end of the season. Dylan texted Mitch before the flight, asking what to do, but all he got in response was _stop being a dumbass!!_

They had been sitting just five points out of reach of the second wild card spot since February—close, but something in Dylan told him this wasn’t their year. But they had gone from second last in the league to a legitimate playoff contender in the span of a season, and Dylan felt proud that he had contributed at least partially to that. 

The Oilers had stood firm at first in the Pacific, and hadn’t budged from it since December. 

Connor stuck to himself during warmups, even as Dylan lingered by the red line as he stretched out, tracking Connor out of the corner of his eye. 

They faced off against each other a few times every period, too, but this time Dylan was the one being ignored. Clayton skated up to him the third time it happened in the first period, tapping his stick against Dylan’s shins. “Keep your head up, Stromer.”

The Coyotes won the game 3-0, ended up winning the season series 3-1, but all Dylan could remember from that night was the way Connor didn’t look at him once. 

-

They finished off the season with a shitty 2-1 loss against the Blue Jackets in Columbus, sealing their position eight points out of a wild card spot. And then all of a sudden it was all over in a rush of locker clean outs and closing interviews with the media and management. Mitch and Connor both made the playoffs easily, and Dylan needed a break from Arizona, so he headed back home. 

His mom made him breakfast his first morning back and kissed his hair before she left for work, and then he was alone for most of the day. Game 1 for Mitch and his guys was the next night, so Dylan texted him and asked if he wanted to meet up for lunch in the city. He got a reply ten minutes later: _sure. You mind if auston comes?_

_Nope. Normal spot 1230?_

_Yea,_ was Mitch’s reply, so Dylan finished his breakfast and went out for a run before he had to get ready to leave. 

-

In the middle of a round of NHL18 with his brothers, Dylan got interrupted by his phone constantly vibrating with text messages.

“The hell?” Matt asked as he scored while Dylan was distracted. 

He picked it up and scrolled through to the bottom, where he found an NHL app notification announcing the nominations for the Calder trophy. “I got nominated for the Calder?” Dylan said, but it came out as a question as he scrolled through the article; it was down to him, Nolan Patrick and Brinksy.

“Hell yeah!” Ryan exclaimed, throwing his arm around Dylan and tugging him into his side. Matt was smiling, too, and offered his fist to bump. 

Dylan finally went through his texts an hour or so later, firing off the generic thank yous for most of them, until he got to texts from guys like Kells and Mitch. Mitch’s first text had just been a string of five lines worth of exclamation marks, followed by another full of hearts. Dylan sent _has auston found your off switch yet?_ and moved on. He’d call later.

He steadily worked through the other texts one by one, until he got to one of the first ones and saw it was from Connor. He had been nominated for the Hart again yesterday, lost out on the Ross by three points to Auston.

The text was a simple _congrats. see you in vegas?_ but it still made Dylan hesitate, unsure of how to reply. He knew exactly how he wanted to reply: _I miss you more than I ever did before because I know exactly now what I could have had months ago,_ but it was all too extra and didn’t even actually answer Connor’s question, so Dylan forced himself to hold himself back and send _you too. see you there, can’t wait_ instead. 

He’d be lying if Dylan said he didn’t watch all of Connor’s games in the first and second round. He justified it to himself as wanting to watch a friend to do well, because he was watching Mitch’s and Brinksy’s games, too. The Blackhawks got knocked out, and Dylan sent Brinksy a quick consolatory text, then moved on. Alex was still his friend, but at least he had gotten a taste of the playoffs. Dylan was stuck at home moping over more than just not making it. 

The Oilers moved on from Calgary after five, and Dylan was at the ACC in one of his Coyotes sweatshirts for the game seven thriller that ended in overtime with a beauty of a goal from Auston. Mitch came out of the locker room practically bouncing and crashed into Dylan, Auston trailing behind with a fond grin. “Stromer! We fucking did it!” Mitch yelled, yanking Dylan down to his height by his neck. Dylan laughed and peeled Mitch off of him, so he went over to latch onto Auston’s arm. “We have to go get drunk with the guys. Like, we _have to.”_

“Yeah, sure, Mitchy, whatever you want,” Auston said, shaking his head, his voice soft. Dylan felt like he was interrupting a moment even if all they were talking about was getting drunk. 

“Stromer, you coming?” Mitch asked, turning to him.

“Nah, I think I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you in the morning though?”

“Depends on how early we’re talking,” Mitch said, already pulling Auston out toward the players’ parking lot. “Bye, Stromer!”

-

Dylan’s routine continued through to the second round, with the addition of his brothers and sometimes one of his parents for some games. Ryan came in to the living room in the middle of game two for the Oilers, and kept casting worried glances in Dylan’s direction whenever Connor came on screen or was mentioned by the announcers. Dylan dutifully ignored all of them. 

He hadn’t told Ryan in as many words that he and Connor weren’t fine two years ago, and especially not after New Year’s, but Dylan assumed he had caught on. Which, whatever, Dylan would let him think what he wanted as long as all it entailed was furtive glances at him. He could deal with that.

Dylan made it to games one and two for the Leafs that round, and they split the games 1-1 then headed down to New York. Before that, though, after their 2-0 game one win, Mitch made Dylan go out with them to celebrate. Mitch got spectacularly drunk, turning into the even more clingy, giggly version of himself as he latched onto Auston for the night. 

-

Mitch’s condo became the place for Dylan to crash in May, as the third round started without the Leafs and the Oilers moved on again, this time to the Western Conference Final against Nashville after beating Anaheim in 7. Dylan had felt a swell of pride in his chest as he watched Connor work his way down the handshake line this time with a wide grin he was failing at trying to school into a neutral expression. He had wanted to call him right then and there, even if he knew Connor wouldn’t be able to answer, and fix everything, tell Connor he had fucked up in turning him down. 

“You still need to talk to him, you know,” Mitch commented in the middle of the second period of game one against Nashville as the camera zoomed in and followed Connor while he circled in front of the faceoff dot. 

Dylan sighed, “I’m working on it.”

Mitch narrowed his eyes, looking over at Dylan. “That’s not good enough, Stromer. You’ve been absolutely fucking miserable since you bitched out and did the stupidest thing you could by telling Connor no. Figure out what you’re gonna do. I want happy Stromer back.”

“Okay. Yeah, Mitch, I’ll figure it out.”

-

Dylan watched with the same frustration he imagined Connor had to have been feeling as the Oilers worked through the handshake line with Nashville, their season officially over after a six game series. He grabbed his phone from where it sat on the coffee table and typed out a text before he could think better about it, _better than last year, remember that. see you in a few weeks._ He didn’t wait up for a reply, knowing if one came, it would have been at a ridiculous time. So he woke up to a text from Connor, _always sucks no matter what but thanks._

Dylan sighed and got out of bed, wandering down the hall to the kitchen where Mitch sat at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. “I think I’m gonna get a new suit next week for Vegas,” he said, pouring himself a bowl.

Mitch quirked an eyebrow at him, “I thought you said you were just gonna wear the gray one?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of blue recently. Like, navy,” Dylan shrugged.

“You want me to come, right? That’s why we’re having this conversation?” Dylan nodded. “Fine, where do you wanna go first?”

A week and a half later, they were in a shop a few blocks from Mitch’s condo getting Dylan fitted for a new suit. Once he had picked out a dark blue suit, white shirt and matching tie, Mitch left to get them a table at their usual spot down the block while Dylan paid.

On his way up to the register, he lingered by the table full of pocket squares, his eyes drawn to the dark blue one patterned with bright white and orange paisleys. It was still subtle enough he could claim plausible deniability if someone questioned him about it, and Dylan thought of the point he was trying to make, so he grabbed it without a second thought. 

-

Dylan went down to Arizona a week before he needed to be in Vegas to pack up the last few things he wanted to bring back to Toronto for the summer that he had left behind in his haste to get back home at the end of the season. 

Two days before the awards ceremony, he flew into Vegas to meet Auston and Mitch. He thought it was weird that Mitch came down to Vegas with them, but he and Auston were weirdly codependent in a way he was sure he had been like with Connor, so he didn’t question it. Still, it threw him for a loop when after they got into the rental car, Auston driving and Mitch in the passenger seat, Mitch reached across the gear shift and tangled his fingers with Auston’s, resting their hands in his lap. But when he really stopped to think about it, it didn’t really surprise him at all. 

The two of them got progressively more disgustingly adorable over the next two days when they were in private, sharing looks that were probably full conversations to them, or constantly holding hands. Once, after dinner, when they were lounging in Auston and Mitch's shared hotel room (featuring one king sized bed) Auston had pulled Mitch down into his lap, the adoration clear in his eyes as he watched Mitch giggle and put his arm around Auston’s neck. 

Somehow, Dylan hadn’t seen Connor at all in the time he had been in Vegas. He probably had Mitch to thank for keeping him busy all day being a pair of tourists and spending time with Dylan’s and Auston’s families who had made the trip out. But he was getting anxious about seeing Connor for the first time since March, talking to him for the first time since December when all this bullshit really started. 

He finally saw Connor for the first time on the red carpet the night of the awards ceremony. Connor drew way too much attention for his own good in a slim fitting light gray suit, and Dylan spent most of his time on the carpet keeping half his attention on him instead of the cameras. Mitch found Dylan once they all got inside then without a word, dragged him down the hall toward the bathrooms just as Auston and Connor appeared, too. 

“Listen,” Mitch said, still gripping Dylan’s sleeve, “you two clearly aren’t gonna do jack shit but be miserable about what happened in December without a shove in the right direction. So, here’s your shove.” Mitch literally pushed Dylan into Connor, then grabbed Auston’s hand and disappeared back into the crowd of people. 

“Hey,” Connor mumbled, his eyes stuck on Dylan’s pocket square. “Auston told me we were going to find Mitch, I guess I should have figured they were planning something. And here you are, wearing my colors.”

“He’s right, you know,” Dylan said and Connor’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “About being miserable and everything. I wish he wasn’t but...”

“Yeah,” Connor trailed off. “Why did you say what you did after I kissed you?”

Dylan ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. “I was scared, more than anything. I kept telling myself it was better for both of us, but really it was just me being selfish and not wanting to put myself out there again with you when I had just gotten you back. I care way too much about you, Davo, and it scares the shit out of me.”

“You can say it, you know. If-if you mean what I think you mean, at least.”

“Huh?”

“I love you, Dyls.”

Dylan choked on his breath with Connor’s words, but they gave him a sudden surge of confidence more than anything, enough to reply easily. “I love you, too.”

Mitch came back to check on them just as Connor had leaned up to tangle one of his hands in Dylan’s hair. They jumped apart when Mitch started clapping. “Fucking finally. Now come on, lovebirds, there’s no time for that. Show starts in ten.”

The Calder winner was the first announcement of the night, and Dylan’s ears were ringing as he made his way to the stage and stumbled his way through an acceptance speech before he was being ushered off the stage. 

_30 goals as a rookie, fucking beauty, dyls_ , was waiting for him when he got backstage. His phone chimed again right after he locked it, another one from Connor, _so proud of you, love you._

Dylan grinned, put down his trophy to reply, _finally got something to hold over your head now._ He didn’t hesitate to send _and love you too_ right after.

Connor, Dylan and Auston posed for photos at the end of the night with their hardware, Mitch pouting off to the side until Auston pulled him over and kissed him for a photo in front of his trophy. Dylan was about to tug on Connor’s sleeve to do the same, but Connor beat him to it, and by the time he had turned to look at him, Connor’s lips were on his and a flash was going off in front of them. Dylan had to remember to ask for it later to make it his phone background. 

Maybe this year, the theme would be first place instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing in the blackhawks getting eliminated in the first round was entirely self indulgent and I have no regrets (who am I kidding this entire thing is self indulgent.)


End file.
